"What a surprise," Patrick said as he took it, "On what grounds?"
"I haven't read it. This is a summons and complaint filed by a Mr. Benjamin Aricia."
"Who?" Patrick asked, in a flat effort at humor. The Sheriff didn't crack a smile.
"This is a summons and complaint filed by your old law firm."
"How much are they after?" Patrick asked, taking the summons ^and complaint.
"I haven't read it. This is a summons and complaint filed by Monarch-Sierra Insurance Company."
"Oh yes. I remember those boys." He passed it to Sandy, whose hands were now full while the Sheriff's were empty.
"Sorry, Patrick," Sweeney said.
"Is that all?"
"For now. I'll stop by the clerk's office in town to see if any more suits have been filed."
"Send 'em over. Sandy here works fast."
They shook hands, this time without the intrusion of cuffs, and the Sheriff left.
"I always liked Raymond," Patrick said, hands on hips, slowly bending at the knees. He made it halfway down before stopping and easing up. "A long way to go, Sandy. I'm bruised to the bone."
"Great. Helps our lawsuit." Sandy flipped through the papers. "Seems Trudy is really upset with you. She wants you out of her life."
"I've tried my best. What are the grounds?"
"Abandonment and desertion. Mental cruelty."
"Poor thing."
"Are you planning to contest it?"
"Depends on what she wants."
Sandy flipped another page. "Well, just scanning here, it appears she wants a divorce, full custody of the child with the termination of all your parental rights, including the right of visitation, all real and personal property jointly owned at the time of your disappearance-that's what she's calling it, your disappearance -plus, oh yes, here it is, a fair and reasonable percentage of the assets you may have acquired since your disappearance."
"Surprise, surprise."
"That's all she wants, for now anyway."
"I'll give her the divorce, Sandy, and gladly. But it won't be as easy as she thinks."
"What do you have in mind?"
"We'll talk about it later. I'm tired."
"We have to talk sometime, Patrick. Whether you realize it or not, we have many things to discuss."
"Later. I need to rest now. Mom will be here in a minute."
"Fine. By the time I drive, fight New Orleans traffic, park and walk, it takes two hours to get from here to my office. When, exactly, might you want to meet again?"
"I'm sorry, Sandy. I'm tired, okay? How about tomorrow morning? I'll get rested up, and we'll work all day."
Sandy relaxed and placed the papers in his briefcase. "Sure, pal. I'll be here at ten."
"Thanks, Sandy."
He left, and Patrick rested comfortably for about eight minutes before his room was suddenly filled with all sorts of health care professionals, an all-female team. "Hi, I'm Rose, your head nurse. We need to examine you. Can we take off your shirt here?" It was not a request. Rose was already pulling on the shirt. Two other nurses, equally as thick as Rose, appeared on each side and began to undress Patrick. They seemed to enjoy it. Another nurse stood ready with a thermometer and a box of other dreadful instruments. A technician of some variety gawked from the end of the bed. An orderly in an orange coat hovered near the door.
They had invaded as a team, and for fifteen minutes performed various tasks upon his body. He closed his eyes and simply took it. They left as fast as they had come.
PATRICK AND HIS MOTHER had a tearful reunion. He apologized only once, for everything. She lovingly accepted, and forgave him, as only a mother can do. Her joy at seeing him displaced any ill will and bitterness that had naturally crept up during the past four days.
Joyce Lanigan was sixty-eight years old, in reasonably good health with only high blood pressure to struggle with. Her husband, Patrick's father, had left her for a younger woman twenty years earlier, then promptly died of a heart attack. Neither she nor Patrick attended his funeral in Texas. The second wife was pregnant at the time. Her child, Patrick's half brother, killed two undercover narcotics officers when he was seventeen, and now sat on death row in Hunts-ville, Texas. This little bit of dirty family laundry was unknown in New Orleans and Biloxi. Patrick had never told Trudy, his wife of four years. Nor had he told Eva. Why should he?
What a cruel twist. Both sons of Patrick's father were now charged with capital murder. One had been convicted. The other was well on his way.
Patrick was in college when his father left, then died. His mother adjusted badly to the life of a divorced middle-aged woman with no professional skills and no history of employment. The divorce settlement allowed her to keep the house and provided her with barely enough money to live on without having to find a job. She occasionally worked as a substitute teacher in a local elementary school, but she preferred to stay at home, puttering in the garden, watching soap operas, drinking tea with old ladies in the neighborhood.
Patrick had always found his mother to be a depressing person, especially after his father left, an event that didn't particularly bother him because he wasn't much of a father anyway. And he wasn't much of a husband either. Patrick had encouraged his mother to get out of the house, find a job, find a cause, live a little. She had a new lease on life.
But she enjoyed the misery too much. Over the years, as Patrick got busier and busier with his law-yering, he spent less time with her. He moved to Bi-loxi, married a woman his mother couldn't tolerate, and on and on.
HE ASKED about aunts and uncles and cousins, people he had lost contact with long before his death; people he had hardly thought of in the past four years. He asked only because he was expected to ask. For the most part, they were doing fine.
No, he did not want to see any of them.
They were anxious to see him.
Odd. They'd never been anxious to see him before.
They were very concerned about him.
Odd, too.
They chatted warmly for two hours, and the passage of time was quickly erased. She scolded him about his weight. "Sickly" was her word. She quizzed him about his new chin and nose, and his dark hair. She said all sorts of motherly things, then she left for New Orleans. He promised to keep in touch.
He had always promised that, she thought to herself as she drove away. But he'd rarely kept in touch.
Chapter 15
OPERATING FROM A SUITE at the Hay-Adams Hotel, Stephano spent the morning playing telephone tag with harried corporate executives. It had been easy to convince Benny Aticia that he was about to be arrested, photographed, printed, and otherwise harassed by the FBI. Convincing egos like Paul Atterson at Monarch-Sierra Insurance and Frank Jill at Northern Case Mutual was another matter. Both were typical CEO's, serious white men with huge salaries and large staffs to keep away anything unpleasant. Arrests and prosecutions were for the lower classes.
The FBI proved quite helpful. Hamilton Jaynes dispatched agents to both headquarters-Monarch's in Palo Alto and Northern Case MutuaPs in St. Paul- with instructions to call on both men and ask a bunch of questions about the search and capture of one Patrick Lanigan.
Both threw in the towel by lunch. Call off the dogs, they said to Stephano. The search is over. Cooperate fully with the FBI, and for heaven's sakes do something to get these agents out of our headquarters. It was very embarrassing.
And so the consortium unraveled. Stephano had kept it together for four years, and in doing so earned himself almost a million dollars. He'd spent another 2.5 million of his client's, and he could claim success. They'd found Lanigan. They had not found the ninety million, but it was still around. It had not been spent. There was a chance of recouping it.